Until Someone Gets Hurt
by fingernailcoloredwalls
Summary: He'd always liked Peter's unflinching willingness to commit violence, the way he never wavered in his careless attitude towards killing. But the best thing about Peter was that no matter what, he'd never leave.
1. Chapter 1

Until Someone Gets Hurt

"This next game should be really easy." Paul sat at the head of a polished, dark wood table. A man and a woman sat on either side of him, a young couple in their mid-twenties, tied to their chairs. They stared silently into each other's tear-stained faces.

"It's like a quiz show. About each other. Since you two know each other so well and all—I mean you seemed to be pretty intimate earlier—this should be a breeze." He looked at Peter, who was sitting on the other end of the table with a tennis racket in his hands. "They should have no problem, right Tom?"

Peter shrugged, nodding.

"We caught them fucking, they should be well-acquainted, don't you agree?"

Peter gave his small, eerie smile and nodded again.

"Fantastic. Now." Paul held up his hands, each one with a plastic drivers' license between a thumb and forefinger. "We'll start off easy. The first one to miss a question loses. And the loser—well, you don't want to be the loser," he said, chuckling in an ironically cheesy way. "Ladies first. Lisa, what is this young man's first name?"

"John," she said quickly.

"Well, all right! Point for you. Now John, don't look, but what color are Lisa's eyes?"

Instinctively the young man looked up from the table, for a split second. Paul clenched his jaw.

"Come on," he said gently. "What did I _just_ say? You're not allowed to break the rules. Peter, penalty for Johnny."

Peter scooted out his chair and stood. Paul hid a dark smile behind his glove. He'd always liked Peter's unflinching willingness to commit violence, the way he never wavered in his careless attitude towards killing. But the best thing about Peter was that no matter what, he'd never leave. No matter how offended and whiny he got, there was definitely a robotic quality to him, an unparalleled obedience. And he was still, always, learning.

"I didn't see," John begged, eyes shut tight. "I didn't, I'm sorry."

The frame of the tennis racket slamming into his shoulder ripped a shout from the man.

"Answer the question now."

"Blue, they're—they're blue, I remember," he stammered, a laugh shuddering out of him in desperate relief.

"That's correct, but watch it. One more rule broken means one more penalty, and _that_ means you lose.

"Lisa, it's your turn again. What is this young man's _middle_ name?"

The woman sniffed, shaking her head. "I'm—" She looked up from the table to Peter, who stood with the racket resting on his shoulder. "Um—Michael?"

"Oh, Lisa, you're just guessing," Paul said. "John, tell Lisa your middle name."

"It's Robert," he choked. Lisa barked out a sob.

"Like the Kennedys," Peter said quietly.

"What?" the bound man asked.

"John and Robert, the Kennedys."

"Jesus, Tubby, now is not the time—"

"I was named after them," John said, tone tinged with desperation. Sometimes their victims used crap they'd heard on TV. Like that if the killers feel connected to you, get to see you as a person, they won't kill you. But Paul never saw anything less than a person. A disgusting, lying fake of a person. They were all acting their way through life, caged by rules imposed on them by society. If he ever became like that he'd kill himself.

"My mom wrote a book about the Kennedys," the hostage said, words spilling out frantically. "She-she got it published a week before I was born, and she—"

"As riveting as that is," Paul interrupted, "I think we're getting off the point. Lisa just lost."

John set his jaw, breathing hard. Lisa began to sob.

"Oh, don't cry. For god's sake. What fun is a game so cut and dry? There is a chance at redemption. If Johnny here doesn't get this next question correct, then you, Lisa, will have another chance. If you blow it, you lose for sure."

Peter dropped into the chair next to John, sniffing. He set the racket on the table in front of him. Paul glanced over one of the driver's licenses, then folded his hands and looked at John.

"What year was Lisa born?"

"Oh fuck, I—" John sighed shakily, hanging his head. "This is fucking ridiculous," he hissed.

Paul leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "What is?"

"You—you're fucked up, you're both fucking crazy."

"Is that your final answer?"

Their victim shuddered against his seat. "Nineteen…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Eighty eight."

Paul sat back in his seat, tapping the licenses against the table. He looked at Peter and lifted his eyebrows. "What do you think? Twenty-three, twenty-four?"

Peter turned his gaze to Lisa, his lips turned up slightly at the corners. "Yeah," he said softly.

"What year would you say, Tubby?"

Paul slid his tongue across his teeth as irritation crossed Peter's face. "Don't call me that," Peter snapped, with all the empty force of a puppy. Paul kept a straight face while Peter blew out a breath and said, "I don't know, eighty-seven?"

"You're both wrong." Paul beamed, looking from Peter to John. "The correct year is nineteen-eighty-nine! Which means that Lisa is back in the running. Lisa, your redemption question has two parts." He held his breath for a beat. "What is John's mother's name, and what is the title of the book she wrote?"

"Ha!" Peter bit his lip, snorted.

Lisa let out a growling scream, rocking violently against the duct tape that held her against the chair. "Get me out of this goddamn chair!" Tears slid down her red cheeks. "I'm not playing!"

"Just guess," Paul said, throwing up his hands. "It can't—" He flinched, mouth snapping shut as the woman next to him spat in his face.

Peter's smile fell and he looked at Paul, who wiped his face with gloved fingers.

"Jesus, Lisa," Paul muttered. "We were having so much fun."

"Just kill me," she sobbed.

Paul stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor. "Wouldn't that be nice?" He gripped the frame of the chair she sat in, tipping it back. Her legs flailed out, shins slamming against the table before the chair crashed to the floor. The loud smack of her head on the ground made John scream. Peter stood slowly, tennis racquet in hand, eyes on Paul.

"I'm sorry," Paul said, smoothing his hair out of his face. "I thought we were having a nice time, but evidently we're not wanted. We'll give you some time to cool down. Tom?"

Peter set the racquet down on the table and followed Paul out the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

((Author's note: I'm a little tentative to get into Peter and Paul's backstory, and what they do/did before their killing spree, because part of the appeal is that no one knows, and there are so many different ways it can go. But this is such a fun movie to write fanfic for, I wanted to branch out a little. I tried to keep it a little cryptic. Did it work? Yeah, no? Let me know, please!))

"It's July," Peter said quietly.

Paul glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"Uh. Yeah. I mean, school starts in a month or… or so."

Sharp and quick as lighting, something in Paul's chest tightened, squeezed. A feeling he couldn't name. Something like anger, but not. It took him several moments just to say, "_What?_"

"People are going to start going home soon, anyway," Peter said. "There won't be anyone here to…" He looked up, squinting into the sun, then down at the lake that was licking his shoes. He swallowed.

Anger was the closest thing Paul could come up with. Anger that was almost paralyzing. "You fucking," he spluttered stupidly. Peter flinched, but his hands stayed clasped in front of him. The perfect little gentleman.

"Are you an idiot? You think you can just go back to school after—you think you can even _function_—"

"Don't be mad, Jerry," Peter murmured.

This pathetic, mopey little _shit_ was making him more furious than he'd ever been, making him lose his flawless composure. He turned on Peter, shoved one shoulder so that the other boy faced him. "You think you can do _anything _without me? You think your classmates won't see what a sick fuck you are, Tubby? You're nothing! You won't exist without me!"

He drew little pleasure in the shudder Tom gave, the way his shoulders jerked. "Before I met you—" Peter started.

Paul stepped closer. "There was no before me."

Peter's eyes searched his, for some kind of bluff. It took everything in Paul not to crush that stupid, innocent face on the rocks.

A hundred feet away, the back door to the house crashed open, and both boys looked back.

"Shit," Paul said. John ran across the lawn, around the side of the side of the house. "Check on Lisa." He took off after John. He didn't need to look back to know Peter was heading back into the house.

Paul's anger pumped his legs, his blood. He arced around the side of the house and slammed into John, sending them both tumbling over the front lawn. John had a size advantage on him, but he was fatigued, injured. It was Paul who came out on top, literally, straddling his victim. He grabbed the man's shirt, yanked him up and pushed him into the ground. Hissing in quick breaths, he smashed his fist into John's face.

"There are rules!" he shouted hoarsely. John gurgled weakly. "You can't just break the rules, can you? Johnny?"

John gave a small gagging sound.

"Can you?" Paul yelled, his face inches from John's bloody nose

"N-no," John choked.

"Get up." He stood, pulling John up by the shirt. He twisted the man's arms behind his back and began marching him towards the front door.

"Peter," Paul barked, ripping open the front door. Lisa was lying on the couch, unattended. Paul tightened his grip on John's wrists. "Peter!"

Peter came into the room with an icepack. "Her head isn't cracked," he said. "There's just a big bump in the back." Her ankles were taped together. Peter sat on the arm of the couch, easing the icepack under Lisa's head. She flinched away from him.

"Let him help you," Paul said. "He's a medical student."

Peter eyed him uncertainly.

"He's going to help people when this is over. He's going to save lives. He's going to be a normal guy. After this." He stuck his foot between John's legs and thrust him forward to fall onto the hardwood floor. It was Peter's fault he had lost his cool, behaved this way in front of their hosts. It was embarrassing, uncivilized. With one foot ground into John's back, he promised himself it wouldn't happen again.

"Peter, will you please hand me the duct tape?"

Peter approached him cautiously, placed the tape in his open hand.

"Thank you. We're going to play another game." Paul wound the tape around John's forearms. "I think Tom will agree with me that these are unusual circumstances. You and Lisa aren't a family, and I sincerely doubt that you love each other. These aren't our usual players, are they, Tom?" He stood up straight.

"No," Peter said.

"And if our last game proved anything, it's that you two don't know each other well. Yet we caught you. Fornicating. In front of God and everything." He hoisted John up and guided him to the couch next to Lisa. She sat up slowly, eyes on the ground.

"That's a sin. In a way, it's your punishment, me and Peter finding you."

Peter stood at Paul's side silently.

"But maybe," Paul went on, "maybe if you pray for forgiveness, God will grant you a painless death. What do you think?"

Neither player looked at him or said anything. Blood was still running down John's chin.

"Do either of you know how to pray? Are you so immoral that you haven't learned one bedtime prayer? Lisa, you never went to church?"

She nodded vaguely.

"Yes? Yes what? You're not being very clear."

"Yes, I went to church," she whispered.

"So? For your sake, and for Johnny's, I hope you learned a little something about forgiveness."

She looked him in the eye, her lips trembling. "If I say it, you won't kill us?"

"Now, I never said that. It isn't up to me, it's up to God. I will, however, award you a prize to be determined. So go ahead."

Lisa's hand slid over John's shoulder. "Our Father who art in Heaven—"

"Is that how you prayed in church?" Paul interrupted. "Touching the guy you were fucking earlier?"

Lisa sobbed, rubbing her hands over her face. She put her hands together in front of her, eyes squeezed shut against her tears. "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name." She hiccupped. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven." Shuddering, she continued. "Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not—" She rocked forward, touching her forehead to her knees for a brief moment. "—not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen."

Paul clapped his gloves together. "That was very beautiful, Lisa! I think He heard that one. You've earned your prize." He turned his head to look at Peter.

"See how easy it is," Paul said, eyes boring into Peter's, "to ask for forgiveness?"


	3. Chapter 3

[urr i just wanted to get this out there. the last half was kinda rushed but whatev]

Peter's eye twitched, and to Paul's bemusement, there was real anger in that glare. But he remained silent.

"Now, your prize," Paul announced, clapping his hands, "is the chance to get ahead in the bet. A new game. Tubby, watch our friends. Make sure they don't cheat." He grinned, shaking his head at the couple and wagging his finger. "But you wouldn't do that, would you?" Chuckling, he turned and strode out of the room.

"What's he doing?" Lisa sniffed, mouth turned down in fear.

Peter grit his teeth and followed Paul out, catching up with him in the kitchen. "You want me to _pray _for your _forgiveness?_" he hissed, fists clenched.

Paul cocked an eyebrow and walked away to the kitchen island. "You left Lisa and John alone, _Tubby._" He pulled a knife from the block on the counter. "We're playing Hide the Knife next. You need to make sure they don't cheat."

"I didn't do anything wrong-we're _partners, _you're not God-"

Anger-no-rage clenched Paul's chest, forced a breath up that caught in his throat. He slammed the knife down on the granite island, forcing his fingers to loosen and let it go before he-fuck, before he did something _regretful-_

"I didn't do anything wrong," Peter repeated meekly.

Paul's lips curled into a cruel smile. "You really think you can leave. You think you're a real person, don't you, Peter?"

"Stop."

"Do you remember what it was like before?" He stepped closer to his partner, who sucked in a breath and held it. "Peter? Do you?"

"I-I'm not playing this with you."

"Oh, you're gonna play." Another step closer. Peter's eyes were wide, wet. "Think about it. Not all those funny stories I tell, but the truth. What made you this way?"

Peter took a step back and Paul snatched his wrist, shoved him into the counter.

"What is it they always ask?" Paul's voice was gentle. "'Why are you doing this?'" Tears streamed down Peter's face. "Well? Peter!" Paul shook him by the shoulders.

"Because you tell me to!" Peter blurted. He gasped in a breath like he'd just broken through the surface of the lake.

"And did I tell you to go back to school?"

"No," Peter hiccuped.

"Then why did you think you would?"

"Please, stop."

"You didn't know it," Paul began softly, pityingly, cupping his partner's cheek, "and I didn't want to ever tell you…" His lips moved to Peter's ear, his teeth grazed the flesh. "...but you don't exist away from me, Peter. Why do you think you have that faggy crush on me? It boosts my ego." Reaching around the other boy, his fingers felt for the knife and he brought it forth, pressed it flat to Peter's chest. "You hide it. The bedroom's behind me. Pull yourself together, for Christ's sake."

Peter took the knife in one hand, wiping his eyes with the other before clutching at Paul's collar. "Please," he murmured, and he really was goddamn pathetic. But Paul acquiesced, gripped Peter's hair and kissed him as sweetly as he knew how. He pulled away when he tasted blood. Peter licked his split bottom lip, eyes toward the floor.

"Time-out's over, Peter."

There was no sign of distress on Peter's face when he returned to the Game Room. He even wore that weird, small smile, hands behind his back. "Ready," he said cheerfully.

"Ah, good to have you back, Tom!" Paul grinned from his spot on the couch between John and Lisa. "We were getting bored," he said, patting each captive on the shoulder. "But now," he stood, "we can give our hosts their prize. Like I said, this game we're about to play can really help you guys get ahead in the bet. Peter has hidden a knife in the guest bedroom. We're going to give one of you thirty seconds to find it-and, you," he waved a hand in their direction, "will decide amongst yourselves who is searching-before Peter reveals its location to me. Got it?"

Neither half of the couple said anything, but Lisa nodded vaguely.

"Awesome. Now, which of you is going to search?"

The captives looked at each other. John's eyes glassy, face smeared with blood, Lisa's lip and hands trembling. "I'll do it," she whispered, and John ducked his head in a dazed nod.

In the doorway to the bedroom, Peter stared at his watch and Paul stared at Peter until Peter nodded and said, "Go." Lisa was understandably frantic, darted around the room. Ripping the pillows and sheets off the bed, shoving the mattress to the floor, then yanking drawers out of their places and upending them. She wrenched the closet open and found it empty right as Peter said, "And time!"

"Oh!" Paul winced. "Tough luck, Lis." The frenzied search continued, eyes flitting, head jerking in all directions. "Oh, you're cheating. Peter said time was up. Where's the knife, Peter?"

Peter's eyes flicked up to the ceiling fan and Paul retrieved the knife from on top of one of the fan blades, stretching up onto his toes to reach.

"Unfortunately, Lisa, your failure has cost your teammate dearly." Paul handed the knife to Peter. Lisa began to rush the doorway and Paul caught her easily, jerking her up against his body. He put a hand on her chin and forced her face in John's direction as Peter stabbed him to death.


End file.
